


Yours, Forever

by villancohmer



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Love Letters, Post-Season/Series 01, Yearning, i dont know where this is going, villanelle being a sappy idiot, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villancohmer/pseuds/villancohmer
Summary: It’s been nine months since she drove a knife harshly into Villanelle’s stomach. Nine months since she felt Villanelle’s sticky, warm blood flow between her fingers. Nine months since she was the worst version of herself; fueled by anger, revenge, betrayal, morphed by the darkest thoughts of her psyche into a killer. Nine months since Villanelle dragged herself, bleeding and pale, out of her Paris apartment and out of Eve’s life. Forever.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. Just Like That

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for KE and I'm really excited! Please, let me know what you think and enjoy!!

When Eve receives the first letter, she immediately tosses it into the trash.

It’s been nine months since she drove a knife harshly into Villanelle’s stomach. Nine months since she felt Villanelle’s sticky, warm blood flow between her fingers. Nine months since she was the worst version of herself; fueled by anger, revenge, betrayal, morphed by the darkest thoughts of her psyche into a killer. Nine months since Villanelle dragged herself, bleeding and pale, out of her Paris apartment and out of Eve’s life. Forever.

Eve would be lying if she said that she didn’t care that Villanelle was dead, which is exactly what she did. Not just to others, MI6 in particular, but to herself as well. She’d spent weeks turning the events of her life since meeting Villanelle over in her head. Replaying the moments she hadn’t lingered on long enough when they took place before her eyes, pausing to ask herself how she could have missed this, fast forwarding through the moments that were just too painful to relive. _Spent._ The tense implies that she’d stopped at some point. She hadn’t. She _spends_ so much time thinking of the weeks that were occupied with chasing Villanelle, more time is dedicated to the brief moment when Eve caught her, and the most time to the seconds that she lost her.

But the present continues and so does Eve. After a re-evaluation process that Eve would argue was exhaustive, that is until she remembers that she _killed_ someone, she is allowed to return to work at MI6. It’s slower now, quieter. Not just due to Villanelle’s absence, but because Eve has been resigned to desk work. Filing paperwork, tagging case files, organizing profiles, boring, boring, boring.

It wasn’t just work that felt boring now, however. Even drinks with Elena and Kenny had dulled to a pathetic shade of their former glory. Eve downed gin and tonics in the harsh glow of club lights that could only remind her of Bill. In the quieter pubs, the soft light felt numbing, her fingers buzzing with the empty feeling of static as they dragged across wooden bar counters. She returned home each night feeling as sullen as she had she had the last. Sullen and drunk.

Eve stares at the letter in the trash. Its off-white, eggshell envelope, adorned with looping cursive letters that she’d seen before, and a seal, crimson as blood, the slight embossing illustrating a domed Gothic building.

Eve shoves the letter deeper into the bin with the heel of her shoe, crumpling the pristine edges.

She makes a mental note to take the trash out soon. It’s something she forgets often. It’s something Niko did. And Niko left. Which, frankly, Eve was pissed about. She wasn’t so much angry that he was gone, but that he’d left _after_ Eve stopped chasing Villanelle. Something about how her selfishness had leaked past her work and infected every part of their relationship, and something else about how Eve had never _really_ loved him. Maybe he was right, because the first thought that Eve had when he walked out of their house for the last time was, _Thank God I never have to eat his shepherds pie again._

So, nine months after Paris, Eve had settled into a routine. Boring work at MI6, numbing drinks with Elena and Kenny, empty anger when she returned home after it all. She bumbled through the days this way until they blurred into each other, until nights out became days in and friends became strangers, until she wasn’t sure if she felt anything at all most days besides the aching boredness that filled the void that Villanelle’s absence had caused, until that feeling spilled out into each and every part of her being. It consumed her in its emptiness, filling Eve so full of nothingness she felt she could drown in it.

Eve feels this boredom pulsate throughout her as she sits at her desk in the MI6 office, surrounded by oppressive blank walls that had become a prison. She’s hit a groove in typing in the serial codes for some investigation she still couldn’t be trusted to be involved in at any higher level than this, when Carolyn’s voice cuts clean through Eve’s consentration.

“Eve, I need to see you in my office,” Carolyn doesn’t pause for a response.

Eve presses enter on the last set of numbers and drags herself from behind her desk to trail alongside her boss.

The _click_ of the door shutting behind her raises the hair on the back of Eve’s neck.

“Please, sit down,” Carolyn adjusts her blouse as she sits herself on the opposite side of the desk from Eve. The side that holds the power.

Eve breathes a long sigh, “Carolyn, look, I’ve done everything I’m supposed to be doing here—”

“Quite presumptuous of you to begin defending yourself when I haven’t told you why you’re here,” it’s neither a statement nor a question. Eve stares.

“I am thankful for your cooperation since your,” a slight, almost imperceptible pause, “indiscretion in Paris.”

Eve shifts uncomfortably in her seat at the memory.

“So thankful, in fact, that I am asking for your help again.”

It doesn’t feel like she’s asking. And she isn’t, because before Eve can respond, Carolyn slides a manila folder across her desk.

“We seem to have a _unique_ case on our hands Eve.”

Eve’s fingers brush over the matte cover of the folder, catching on the open edge, and slipping inside to flip past copies of briefs straight to the glossy crime scene photos. Her pulse quickens, breath sticks in her throat, tongue darting out to wet her lips.

The scene is gruesome, blood, still wet when the photos were taken, is splashed across the floor and walls, a man’s body lays center frame, contorted in the unnaturally stiff way that only corpses can be. Eve reasons as her eyes flit from picture to picture, taking in each detail. Their murderer is far from shy, they relished in making a mess, it was fun to them. Eve notices the pools of blood are swirled with a second pale gold liquid.

“What’s this second substance, doesn’t look like pis—,” Eve catches herself on the last syllable, “ — pee, urine.”

“It isn’t. It’s champagne.”

Eve’s blood runs cold in her veins. She flips to the close up images. Small green glass freckles the floor, blood and champagne run together in bold strokes, and in the final image, a photo of the interior of the hotel refrigerator, a single bottle of champagne sits unopened.

Eve opens her mouth but no sound comes out.

“Simple at first glance, typical political assassination. Until the champagne. Eve, have you got an idea of what kind of assassin we may be looking for?” Carolyn’s tone is sharp, challenging, accusatory.

“I killed her.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Eve fights the urge to be sick.

“I want to go.”

“The scene’s been cleaned Eve, our people are out.”

“The next one then.”

“You’re confident there will be a next one?”

Eve shifts to the edge of her seat, palms flat against the cold varnished wood.

“If this is her? Absolutely.”

Carolyn seems to consider this for a moment.

“Very well then. When we see her antics again, you’ll be on the team.”

“Just like that?” Eve is sure her mouth hangs open.

“Just like that,” Carolyn moves to the door.

Eve gathers the photos back into the folder haphazardly and stands. Taking Carolyn in and getting nothing as she exits the office.

Eve returns to her desk in a daze, her mind returning to the state of tunnel vision which seems only to scream _Villanelle Villanelle Villanelle._ Slumped into her too small desk chair, she opens the file again, taking the time to read the briefs the second time around.

Andrea Gallo could’ve been anyone, just another corrupt leader that the world would probably be better without. What mattered to Eve, and though Carolyn may not admit it, MI6 as well, was who had killed him. The other details of the brief were information that Eve had already gleaned from the photographs alone. Of the few pieces of new information, the location, Florence, Italy, was what prompted her to stand from her desk, ignoring questions from Elena and Kenny as she walked out of the front door.

Eve silently thanked whatever God there may be that Niko hadn’t been there to take out the trash, saving her the embarrassment of digging through rubbish in public.

The letter, which had been buried under a half eaten banana and several pastry wrappers, was crumpled and stained. Despite this, the twisting letters remained legible on the grayish surface, _‘Eve Polastri 73 Church Street London NW8 5HR._ The return address was starkly empty.

Eve turned the envelope in her hands, running her finger over the dulled, deep red seal and tugging at it until it released.

The paper was delicate, handcrafted, expensive feeling, which Eve cursed because _seriously_ who needs expensive _paper_.

Eve breathed in deeply before beginning to read.

_My darling Eve,_

Gross.

_I’ve missed you so dearly. Have you missed me? Have you thought of me? I think of you so often, when I look to the heavens and remember that we are under the same stars. And when I walk past rivers I wonder if the water beside me has grazed your cheek as London rain. I think about you all the time, Eve. You told me the same before you stabbed me. I was angry with you at first, you did not stab me in a very nice place, but the more I thought about it, the more I know that it is because you like me. Unconventional, like trashing my apartment, but the same motivations. I find this very romantic, Eve. Would you allow me to return the favor? My affections would be less painful, I promise. We could sit under the stars, walk along rivers, as long as we are together we could do anything you please._

_I would like to apologize for not contacting you sooner, it was not safe for the both of us. And for now, letters are best, and more romantic anyways. A letter you can hold to your chest, breathe in the scent of me that lingers, trace your fingertips over the ink. My sweet Eve, I will write to you often, counting the days until I can be with you again, that is the day where my aching heart might find peace._

_Yours, longing,_

_V x_

Eve finds herself gripping the soft edges of the paper so tightly that they begin to tear. Her heart pounds and her vision blurs and her breath quickens until she’s dizzy and clutching the edge of the counter to keep herself upright. She hadn’t felt this way in so long. Not since she dashed around Villanelle’s kitchen, hands stiff with drying blood, ducking behind walls for cover from _bullets._ And now she felt the same rush of adrenaline, the same panic and fear because Villanelle wrote her a— love letter?

Eve’s hands move deftly to return the letter to its envelope, examining the seal once again. The small ridges and valleys coming together to form the domed roof and arching windows of a cathedral, and small text that read, _‘Duomo di Firenze - Cathedral of Florence._

Florence _._


	2. Can I Take This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve gets a much needed talking to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, life is not the best atm, but nonetheless here is chapter two! Don't be shy, let me know what you think in the comments. Thanks for reading and thanks for all the kudos!!

If Eve was honest with herself, she never really believed that Villanelle was dead. Maybe the same cosmic force that seemed to perpetually link the two women also reached out to Eve with a gentle grasp, a whisper saying, _she’s still here._ Or maybe it was Eve’s mortal guilt that prevented her from accepting Villanelle’s fate.

But now, Eve had no guilt to reconcile, no celestial power had to tell her that Villanelle was alive, she had told Eve herself. In fact, what shocked Eve the most was how Villanelle had chosen to make herself known to her again.

For months, Eve had feared walking into her empty house to find it not empty— walking in to see Villanelle stretched out comfortably at her kitchen table, or leaning nonchalantly in her doorway. Or worse, waking to find herself pinned under Villanelle, knife to her chest, gun to her temple, Villanelle’s long, deft fingers wrapped around Eve’s throat.

Villanelle never came. No knife, no gun, no hands. Just a letter.

Eve had rushed to text Kenny an off-the-books request to test the envelope for traces of poison. Nothing. No ricin or anthrax **.** Eve made Kenny double and triple check. Nothing.

Just a letter. A love letter at that. Eve’s mind raced trying to scope out any potential ulterior motives. Well, for one, Eve had stabbed Villanelle. She could want to do any number of things to Eve as retaliation, despite her insistence that she found the gesture _romantic._ Villanelle was also back to work, with the assassination of Gallo in the same city that she wrote the letter in, the whole thing could be another scheme to string Eve along as she killed unsympathetically, jet setting from city to city, leaving Eve’s ruined life in her wake.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter anymore. Eve had a job to do, the same as before: catch Villanelle. But this time, no feelings, feelings only got in the way, feelings are what allowed Villanelle to slip away as her blood slipped through Eve’s fingers. This time would be different, this time Eve wouldn’t let her get away.

As it turned out, Eve wouldn’t have to wait long to get started. In the early hours of the morning, just as the sun begins to glint off of the buildings of the London skyline and the birds begin to chirp, before the busy sounds of the city are in full force, Eve receives a text.

_‘Berlin. Catch the 6:15 flight.’_

The text is followed by a brief email with further details about her travel arrangements and before she can seem to take a breath, she is seated on the 6:15 nonstop flight to Berlin.

Berlin. She hadn’t been to Berlin since Bill. Since she watched her best friend— maybe her only _true_ friend in the world be stabbed to death as she stared helplessly, screams drowned out by the incessant drone of club music and moving bodies, wedged and rubbing against the too hot, too close, sweating skin of strangers. All while the small, silver knife was plunged in and out and in and out too many times to count. All while _Villanelle_ pushed a blade into her best friend over and over again.

Eve suddenly felt sick, suffocated as if she was back in the dark club, washed in harsh blue light. She couldn’t help but think what she was getting herself back into, putting the people she loves at risk. But who did she have now, for Villanelle to take from her? Her heart twists as she thinks of Elena and Kenny. She’d already asked Kenny for a personal favor regarding Villanelle, which is exactly what had gotten Bill killed. Eve makes a mental note: _no more having other people do my dirty work. I will find Villanelle on my own if I have to. No one else will die._ It’s bold, it’s something she can’t guarantee, but it’s the only thing that allows her to sleep for the rest of the flight.

* * *

The scene is strangely clean.

Eve walks through the café, side stepping past chairs left untucked from their tables, each step filled with intention. The body of Emilia Amsler lay cold on the floor, so undisturbed one could mistake her stillness for slumber if it wasn’t for the pale, tight skin that only comes with death. Her hair, a deep, dark chocolate brown, was situated in stark contrast to the wide, white tiles of the restaurant which lacked any evidence but a drop of blood near Amsler’s parted mouth.

Eve would say it looked almost tragic but Amsler had been siphoning money out of public projects to fund her trips to Bali, so _fuck her._

_Is this even Villanelle?_ Eve can’t help but wonder. It wasn’t that Villanelle couldn’t do clean and quiet, she could, and very well, but Eve had thought that Villanelle would continue her trend from Italy. Bold, messy, loud, kills that screamed _Villanelle_ so clearly that she might as well have left an autographed picture behind. The only things about this kill that began to suggest Villanelle’s involvement are the fact that it was committed in broad daylight, during the early morning coffee rush and the bright green scarf emblazoned with zebras which had been delicately tucked into Amsler’s pocket. _Eve’s scarf._

Eve lifts the scarf slightly with the end of her pen, catching the eye of a member of the local authorities.

“Can I take this?” Eve’s tone is direct, unwavering.

“I— that will have to go into evidence with everything else I’m afraid,” the words falter, tumbling out of the man’s mouth.

Eve tilts her head, only slightly, maintaining eye contact, and reaches into her breast pocket for her identification. She flashes her details at him briefly, swooping the scarf into her grasp at the same time, before standing and turning to walk away.

“Ma’am you— I can’t just let you…”

Eve lets the man’s words fade into nothing as she stuffs the scarf into her pocket.

At the MI6 office, there’s not much Eve can do. Her primary task seems to be confirming that the kill is indeed Villanelle’s work. The questions that come after, _‘Where will she be next?’ ‘Who is her next target?’ ‘Who ordered this hit?’_ , are questions that Carolyn still doesn’t seem to want Eve finding the answers to. Questions about the 12. Questions that, frankly, Eve didn’t care to know the answer to. Except where Villanelle would be next. Eve felt so trapped, constantly chasing Villanelle, the cat in their cat and mouse game. Eve laughed to herself at the thought of Villanelle being a mouse. There was nothing mouselike about her, nothing small or quiet. Even if her kills had those qualities at times, Villanelle was always bold, unapologetic in every action that she took, every moment she lived was lived in pure indulgence.

Eve’s train of thought is interrupted by Elena’s sudden start to strike up conversation.

_Elena._ She’d nearly quit after Paris. Apparently she had a bit more common sense than Eve and when she felt her life may be in danger she tended to move away from the danger rather than _towards_ it. But, she’d ended up staying, maybe for Eve’s sake, maybe because she still wanted to live her badass spy fantasy, either way Eve was glad to have her.

“Who’s got you smiling, babes?”

“Just thinking is all,” Eve is pulled out of her Villanelle induced daze, determined not to give Elena any fodder.

“Sure I didn’t interrupt some steamy, midday reverie?”

Eve was glad to have Elena but that didn’t mean she couldn’t roll her eyes at her smug bullshit.

“What?,” Elena feigns innocence. “I’m only teasing, don’t go all pouty on me.”

Eve can’t help but to crack a smile at the sight of Elena’s own cheeky grin.

“So, how was Berlin?”

The air between them is suddenly charged, so much unsaid within three words.

“Clean.” Eve says simply, her tone unwavering. “Clean and quick and definitely Villanelle.”

Elena visibly sudders at the mere mention of her name.

“Still can’t believe it.”

Still can’t believe Bill, she means. Still can’t believe that Villanelle _killed_ Bill and now he’s gone and it’s Eve’s fault and _fuck_ , _he had a baby, and Keiko_ , and he would _never_ come back to them, because Villanelle killed him and _Eve_ let her.

Elena must sense Eve’s mental spiral because her tone lightens the next time she speaks.

“Drinks later?”

Eve is quiet.

“You didn’t kill him you know.”

“I might as well have,” Eve feels numb.

“Get up.”

Eve meets Elena’s gaze in confusion, “What?”

“I said get up, we’re not doing this here.”

Before Eve knows it, she and Elena are walking wordlessly down the street. They come to a mostly empty pub, dim, yellow light shrouds the far corners of the room in darkness. Eve’s fingers run against the wood grain mindlessly, catching on ragged fibers that stick in her skin with nothing more than a dull pinch.

Elena breaks the silence.

“You don’t just get to do that,” she cuts herself off with a word to the barkeep, “Two gin and tonics.”

Eve takes the opportunity to get a word in edgewise, “Do what?”

“Make this about you.”

Eve is incredulous.

“I can basically read your mind, Eve.” She takes a heavy sip from the glass just set on the bar.

“And what does my _mind_ say?”

With anyone else, Eve’s words would sting, but this is Elena, the closest thing she’d had to a best friend since Bill, and she took her words like a bullet to a kevlar vest. Besides, this wasn’t their first spat and it certainly wouldn’t be their last.

“It _says_ , _‘I’m the one who killed Bill’_ ,” she punctuates the sentence with an exaggerated pout. “But you aren’t! It was that psycho-sexy-killer-assassin lady! And _yes_ , you were chasing her, and _yes_ , you asked Bill to help you, but that was his choice! He _chose_ to help you because he loved you, Eve. And now you’re moping around like you’re the only one who deserves to be sad because you’ve convinced yourself that _you_ killed him!”

If there was anyone else in the bar, they would be staring now.

Eve is speechless.

“We’re all sad, Eve. Hell, we’re all _devastated_. But we’ve got to keep going, and that means that you don’t get to sit around throwing your own pity party, and if I’m honest, acting like a bit of a dickswab.”

Eve can’t help but smile at hearing Bill’s word again. It’s a small, reflective sort of smile and Eve lifts her head to look at Elena.

“I’m sorry,” and it’s just two words, but Eve means it.

Elena’s hands find Eve’s, holding them in a warm embrace against the worn wood of the bar.

“If you’re really sorry then drink with me,” Elena moves Eve’s hands towards her drink which has sat untouched.

They drink. And Eve feels happy for the first time in a long time.

When Eve stumbles through the front door, much too late and far too drunk for a woman who has work tomorrow, she nearly faceplants as she trips over the mail that lay piled underneath her mailslot.

Bills, bills, spam, coupons, another bill, and finally, an off-white envelope adorned with Eve’s name, spelled out in the now familiar writing.

The return address is blank again, but the ruby seal gave Eve all the information she needed: _‘Berliner Fernsehturm - Berlin, Germany’._

Eve wants to rip it apart, or set it on fire, or flush it down the toilet, or all of the above. But, she figures that would absolutely wreck her plumbing and she really didn’t have the money to fix it, besides, though she may not admit it to herself, she was curious.

_Dearest Eve,_

Eve doesn’t think it’s possible to roll her eyes harder than she already is.

_I hope you received my first letter, I took great care to write it. You know English is not my native language and otherwise I would write in French, but unfortunately you do not know it, so I tried my best, though, you really should learn French, Eve. It is the language of romance. And we have such fond memories of Paris. Or I do, at least._

_I miss you still. I do not know anyone in Berlin. And even if I did? If I went out to meet someone at this moment? It would not satisfy me, Eve. Other people only bore me now. Compared to you, everyone else is dull, black and white while you are bursting in color. It is tiring to be surrounded by them and so far away from you, it borders on torture, and I know quite a lot about torture._

_Are you looking for me Eve? Like before? It is not so much fun this time, I think. I do not want to run from you anymore, it hurts me. But, for now, I must. And you will find me, even if I have to let you, which I probably will not. You are too smart for your own good, Eve. Too smart for others’ good too. Do not be foolish, we both work for people who could hurt us very badly._

_I will see you soon, I feel. Until then, think of me. I think of you. All of the time._

_Yours, waiting,_

_Vx_

Eve found herself waiting too. For what, she wasn’t sure yet, but she had a feeling she would find out soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i'm @villancohmer on twitter and cc if you want to chat or see sneak peeks of next weeks chapter

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm not entirely sure where this is going yet but it's definitely going somewhere. if you want to talk to me i'm @villancohmer on twitter and cc :)


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